Afterwards
by Highspeed0516
Summary: This Everlark/Peeniss fanfiction mimics Susan Collin's style while fleshing out the ending of Mockingjay. Rather than relying on exposition, I return to the characters and introduce Rue's father as a full character, to show how Katniss and Peeta grow together, deal with their issues, and define exactly what events lead up to and through their first love making. non erotic versio
1. Chapter 1

Afterwards

I have already lost so much, but I think if I ever truly lost Peeta I would end up in much worse shape than my mother was after the explosion took my father from her. Somewhere deep down I know he is the one I can't live without, but I also fear this fact. I don't want to have anyone I can't live without.

Once restricted to district 12, Peeta and I were placed together into a different sort of arena, but we both knew we had to do what we have always done since that first train ride to the Capitol - make sure we survive. So when I say we grew closer, it was not the sort of growing closer that happens naturally just because you spend a lot of time with someone or even just enjoy their company a lot. It was a struggle.

Even so, I did enjoy Peeta's company a great deal. There was a certain amount of charm to him that could never be erased—under any amount of torture. Also, with my mother and Gale so distant my choices for companionship were usually limited to buttercup or Hamich. I don't know if either Hamich or that ugly cat ever realized how much alike they were. They both treated me with about the same amount of distaste, even after Hamich finally sobered up by joining some kind of club that threw drunks together in order to help each other stop drinking.

So Peeta and I grew closer deliberately in a calm, patient search to find ourselves again. In the process, we found each other, and everything reignited again—our passion, our need for each other, all our joy at being together. It all came together on that day we first made love. On that day I was no longer afraid of admitting I didn't have to survive on my own.

It was the day they commissioned a new building called a courthouse. It was constructed right on the same plot of land as the old Justice building, which was completely demolished shortly after the establishment of the new government—the United Districts of Panem. Justice buildings were the first structures to be brought down, followed closely by any hint of the barriers that used to keep the districts enclosed. Initially, this created a few unanticipated problems, especially in a district struggling to rebuild.

Packs of wild dogs and other animals often wandered into town. There were expensive losses in goats and other livestock, and eventually I found myself hunting again - not for food as much as to protect people from animals that became a danger. I still preferred my bow for the task, but I learned to become pretty proficient with a gun as well, especially if I was called on to take down a bear or big cat after a mauling.

Greasy Sae, District Twelve's first ever elected mayor, stops by to visit me that morning. She asks both Peeta and me to cut a big red ribbon together with a ridiculously large pair of scissors in a gesture designed to symbolically open the courthouse for business. I immediately began to politely decline as Greasy stands on my porch. I have no desire to be involved in anything political or symbolic anymore. Peeta talks over my words sharply, drowning out my, "I'm sorry." with "We'd be honored."

I turn to Peeta, who had come to the door slightly behind me and snarl. "What? No! Peeta you know how I feel about—"

"Excellent!" Greasy beams as if I had made no objection at all. "Please be there at eleven. We're gonna do this thing at noon but we need to do a practice run first. See you two there!"

Ugh. I hate this behavior from Greasy even more than Peeta's sudden acceptance of the political request. Peeta and I are not married. In fact, marriage is somewhat of a taboo subject for anyone to bring up with me, but people always go around treating us like we are married anyway, despite the fact that Peeta and I don't even live in the same house.

Not technically. It only took us a week or so for us to remember that the nightmares were far less severe for us both when we slept curled up next to each other. It took us about another week to give up the fight and just sleep together. Although I gave in, I made him come to my house to spend the night every time. Peeta really only went to his house to paint after that, but this was often enough for me to declare him as living separately from me.

What really makes me mad was the presumptuousness of it all. Under the Capitol, Peeta and I were expected to marry for our survival. For a time, we were even publically engaged. Marriage was one of those few free choices we had and even that was being taken from me. Now, even though everyone in all the districts has more freedom than we'd ever dreamed just two years before, this constant expectation of marriage felt very nearly as constricting as those terrible days on the Victory Tour.

I am angry enough at Greasy's attitude that I almost forget to be angry with Peeta.

Almost.

One look at Peeta and he becomes the object of all my fury once again. I think he should know better as I storm off into the kitchen, but he follows me anyway. This only makes me even more irritated at him, but I am determined to find something to keep me busy so that I don't throttle him. Hunting is still one of my favorite ways to unwind, but I have to go much farther than I used to in order to catch any game, and I rarely hunt for my own gain anymore unless I am just absolutely craving a meal out of something wild and unprocessed.

After they took down the fences, our district began to expand. People cut down sections of the old forest to farm and make use of all the wood. There was a lumber mill now, and our district could sell much more than just coal. Free trade between the other districts meant that a whole new economy became possible. The old hob became a true central marketplace with goods I had never even seen before, even during my time in the Capitol.

There was a toy store, the candy store grew, a new fuel that we had never had access to before called gasoline powered machines that could cut your grass, plow your field, or even run personal electric generators. My favorite new product being sold in the district was a cold and tasty treat called ice cream. In the days of the Capitol, there would have been no way to keep such a strange delicacy cold, mostly because we would never have had enough electric power. The Capitol had controlled all electric power and the only power plants in existence were in the Capitol itself and in district two.

Once we were allowed to build our own power plant, which was really just a dam on a nearby river, our little town and the Victor's village had electricity almost all the time. My kitchen now had a large eclectically powered box called a refrigerator. The thing's only job was to keep food cold, and yet I treasured it. I could now have ice cream any time I wanted. Chocolate was my favorite. The stuff was probably the second best way to calm me down, and knowing this I went straight for the refrigerator.

I'm thinking about how the last time I saw Hamich he told me in confidence that all this free trade and abundance of electrical power would have never have happened if I had not killed President Coin. There were many who recognized this already, and the real reason for my confinement was to appease Coin's many supporters from District Thirteen.

Hamich became a senator once he sobered up—someone who would represent District Twelve in the new government. Each district got two that were chosen by their own people, and together these 24 people would sit around and argue and vote on laws and policy. Those first elections felt strange to witness. The great power of having a say in who my leaders were was not lost on me, especially when I was informed by an official that because of my detainment in the district I was not allowed vote. I was surprised Hamitch even wanted to be involved, but I told him he would have had my vote if they'd let me.

Hamitch learned things working in the new government. The representatives from Thirteen told him in a social conversation that Coin had planned a very different kind of Republic. She would have called it the People's Republic of Panem. "Republic" was just an arbitrary word to her, where her vision was to force everyone to share all resources equally, especially the capitol city, which had gorged itself on the labors of the districts for so long. Hamitch said this type of government was actually something called communism, and from the perspective of the people in the districts would not have seemed greatly different from Snow's old iron fist regime, with Coin still in complete power.

Her support from the more militant member of District Thirteen would have made her unstoppable, and most people in the new government recognized this, especially the first elected president of the UDP—Reggie Hayfield. Hamitch said President Hayfield desperately wanted to meet me, but I had declined every invitation. I had had enough of presidents.

"You're going to have ice cream now?" Peeta asks from behind me in a tone that suggests I am crazy. "It's only nine in the morning. You just had breakfast."

"Shut up!" I snap. "I'm mad at you. How dare you drag me into this—this circus!"

I pull a carton of chocolate from the freezer and frowned as I pulled the lid. There is not much left. I slap the freezer door shut angrily and clutch the carton in my hand as I search for a spoon. Peeta tries to sooth me as I yank open a drawer.

"Katniss, this could be important for the moral of the district. I'll do all the talking. All you have to do is stand there and look pretty."

This is the wrong thing to say to me. I grab a spoon and spin on Peeta, advancing with the utensil aimed at his throat like it was a knife.

"Pretty? You think this is about me being afraid to talk? Or don't you mean you want me to stand there on display while I get to look at how sorry everyone is for me or how much they hate me!"

Peeta puts his arms up in a gesture of surrender and backs away. "Katniss, they don't hate—"

"You of all people should understand, Mr. —'I don't want to be a piece in their games.'"

My spoon is quivering now just under his chin, my breath coming in short heated bursts through my nose as I stare him down, daring him to continue to try to persuade me. He looks genuinely hurt by my comment for a moment, and then his eyes drift downward, trying to see the metal weapon I threaten him with.

"Are you going to finish me off with that?" says Peeta, grinning. "Because it's probably not the most efficient way."

I give an exasperated snort and turn away, which is really designed to cover the laugh that is brewing in my chest, because I need him to continue understanding that I am seriously angry.

"Why would you think they hate you?" He presses.

I place my hands on the kitchen counter next to the ice cream carton and stare out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the town springing up below through the haze of a damp and foggy morning. My breathing is more relaxed now, and despite my best efforts to keep raging I can only mutter my words as I think about the people in that town.

"Haven't you seen the way they look at me, Peeta? They give you the same look you know. Either full of pity for me being this poor girl who went insane from overused and trauma, or full of hate—for the traitor that killed their beloved Coin. You at least they never hate."

Peeta steps closer to me again. "Katniss, you may have earned a few enemies that day but you're still their mocking jay. They even used your pin design for the national flag. This isn't like that singing show Plutarch wanted you on, this is different, a chance to let them see the old you."

It was true they had used the design of the pin for the national banner. The flag was navy blue with a mocking jay surrounded in a brass circle, just like on the pin. An arrow clutched in the bird's feet and tongues of orange flames spewing from the ring made the symbol even more symbolic. Perfectly spaced at the tip of thirteen tongues of flame was a white star, each representing one of the thirteen districts.

"Didn't Hamitch tell you—"

Peeta lays a hand on my shoulder, as he says this, but he was not quite welcome to do so, especially since his words reignite my anger. It's not fair really, because Peeta doesn't know why I am really angry. He doesn't understand that I didn't kill Coin for the benefit of anyone except me. I feel tears well in my eyes a little as I scream at him.

"I don't care what Hamitch says about the stupid senators!"

I swat Petta's hand off me and elbow him hard enough in the ribs to send him stumbling backward to the kitchen table. He reaches out a hand to steady himself, but instead of finding the sturdy flat surface of the table it slams into a breakfast dish. Both dish and Peeta crash to the floor.

He leaps to his feet, and his eyes are so full of fury I realize with terror that I may have awakened something within him—that the instinct to kill me implanted by Snow and the Capitol had taken over under the threat of violence from me. I brace myself for the worst, but as Peeta approaches me he examines his cut hand, and I can see his mind working—trying to remember.

"This has happened before," he says carefully. "Real or not real?"

I swallow, and take a step backwards, still wondering if I should make a break for the exit.

"Real," I say. "I pushed you after our interviews before the first games. I was mad that you professed a crush for me without warning me."

"Yeah," says Peeta slowly. "I remember. There used to be this other memory, where you attacked me before the games on purpose to weaken my chances. It used to be a shiny memory, but now it just feels like—like a bad dream. In fact, I've been meaning to tell you, all the bad memories are fading like dreams. . ."

This makes me smile. "That's good. We both have lots of bad dreams that need to fade away."

I find a cloth and wet it with one of the jugs of water I keep on hand for cooking.

"You're bleeding. Let me see that."

"It's just one little cut," says Peeta. "Not nearly as bad as the last time."

Regardless I still wipe down the wound and fetch a first aid kit leftover from when my mother was still living here. I talk to her in the phone maybe once a week, but I have not seen her since returning to district twelve. I try to force how much I actually miss her from my mind and concentrate on patching Peeta up.

"I'm sorry, Peeta. " I say as I begin bandaging his knuckles "Why do you put up with my abuse?"

He just sighs and says, "Katniss, when are you going to learn the effect you have on people?"

Before I can protest, before I can start another argument on how much I hate it when he says that, and before I can even finish wrapping the bandage. He kisses me. The warmth of his lips, and the light touch of his fingers on my cheek saps all the defiant energy from me. I'm not even mad that I know his kiss has convinced me to come cut the stupid ribbon. I just never tell him so.


	2. Chapter 2

A few hours later I'm once again seated on an outdoor stage, participating in what is by no means a small ceremony. Peeta is seated to my right, and Hamitch is on my left. We have been given comfortable cushioned chairs with straight wooden backs. There are two full rows of people up here with us, dignitaries and mayors from other districts, and a few other senators like Hamitch. There are guards at the foot of the stage, dressed in a new uniform of light sky blue. They are called citizens on patrol. They are another new creation of the republic, where each district would now be responsible for maintaining their own law enforcement. They aren't peacekeepers or soldiers, but I am still suspicious of them because most of them have moved in from other districts. I try to keep in mind that beyond a few hundred people everyone living in district twelve these days have come from somewhere else. The patrolmen's job is not much more than to keep anyone from rushing up onto the stage, and I am a little nervous at being so exposed. With all the people that must hate me, surely there was someone in the gathering crowd with a gun, and that person would have to do is point and shoot. I would probably never see it coming. It doesn't seem like enough security for what is about to happen, and all I can do is try not to be mad that people tried to keep a secret from me once again.

For about half an hour a crowd gathers. It seems odd to see the genuine excitement on their faces. People are buzzing with real interest. Children climb onto their father's shoulders, and it brings a feeling of longing to me. One little girl of about three or four stares at me wide-eyed from the front row while she bounces on her mother's hip. I make a silly face at her, and she smiles and hides her face from me. There is a bit of a warm feeling in my chest, at how happy her parents must be that there will be no more hunger games. I squash that kind of positive thinking immediately; because otherwise I'll forget that this world is still no place for a child, where people drop fire bombs on them just to manipulate the masses in their favor.

Earlier, the rehearsal moved by swiftly, and like Peeta promised I had no lines, just as series of places I was supposed to stand as different people practiced a few words at a podium set up on the stage. It seemed almost odd somehow, that Effe Trinket was not around reminding me to smile until my cheeks hurt. We are guided instead through the various stages of the ceremony by a funny little man who is bald except for a single line of bright orange hair down the middle of his head ending in a duck tail. He speaks in a sort of effeminate version of the capitol accent and somehow reminds me of a male version of Effe. I vaguely wondered what Effe would do now that there were no tributes to cart around every year. I liked Greasy Sae's presentation the best. After some big keynote speaker who is currently absent has some words, all she plans to say is, "No use wasting everyone's time! Let's declare this place open and go about our business!"

The little man clapped his hands together to get our attention at the end of the practice run.

"That was super-duper people!" he almost sings. "Now remember Mayor Sae we aren't sure how long the president is going to speak so—"

"The president!" I half shriek in surprise.

I see Hamitch grimace and clap his hand to his forehead. The little man sort of clears his throat and gives an apologetic look. Immediately I seek Peeta for interrogation.

"You knew about this?" I say in a tone that warns him he better not try and lie.

"Only _after _convincing you to come. Hamitch mentioned it to me a little while ago though. When Greasy came knocking that really was the first I heard of this whole thing."

"We knew you'd never come out if we mentioned this little detail, sweetheart," says Hamitch.

My shoulders sag. There's no use running back to my house to bolt the door now, as I am already out here. I'm just so sick of people not telling me things, even if they are right to do so.

"Why is President Hayfield even coming for this?" I complain. "It's just a district courthouse."

All they say is that this is the first courthouse of its kind completed and that Hayfield has an important announcement to make regarding our district. Nobody tells me what a production this day was going to be. I decide to believe Peeta when he says didn't realize it either, but I'm irritated at him anyway for not including me as soon as he knew. I try not to be irritated when someone sits me down behind a screen to give me a light dose of makeup. Thankfully, they only clean up my hair braid a little. The stylist crews are part of that population of the district that moved here after the fences went down. I begin to worry I am underdressed for the occasion, but they assure me that what I have on is fine. I'm wearing a green dress with a spiral pattern on it as if leaves blown in the wind. It's something that supposedly I designed while I pretended to make designing my talent. Even now Cinna is still dressing me well for an audience.

A band marches onto the stage to play our new national anthem as they raised our new flag. The old market square television screen is still up, and it shows stirring images as the words to the anthem are shown so everyone who may not have heard it yet can sing along if they wish. The same band joins an orchestra and a choir, who performs three new hymns about freedom and sacrifice. Finally, the whole thing climaxes with a number from a dance production.

The dancers perform in a particular manner that I have never seen before— an art of dancing called ballet. The dance was symbolic and beautiful, but it was difficult for me to watch, because horrible events that I had lived through were being transformed into something strange and beautiful. There were dancers representing wounded medical patients, their beautiful white outfits adorned with bandages that streamed behind them and made beautiful patterns as they danced. These dancers were soon joined by more dancers in black and silver wearing large pinwheel fans that made them look like hovercraft. The music changed to something loud and dreadful as the hovercraft dancers chased around the white dancers in a display of chaotic, but perfectly balanced leaping and prancing. The music shifts again to a type of heroic fanfare that somehow releases the pressure on my heart, and a beautiful young woman dressed in a black dancers costume very similar to my mockingjay suit leaps onto the stage. A boy is with her. Maybe he is supposed to be Gale but his main purpose seems to be to lift and even sometimes throw the dancer representing me into the air in several stunning displays of balance. She leaps and twirls in a circle around the hovercraft dancers, and fire starts to erupt just behind her steps from the stage itself as she surrounds the other dancers in a brilliant ring of fire. When she and the dancers conclude in a final pose the people in the street cheer and applaud so loudly I can barely even hear my own thoughts.

During the applause I feel Peeta's eyes on me. I meet his gaze and find him smiling at me, and I let him take my hand in his.

"Still think they hate you, sweetheart?" he says.

The term of endearment isn't said in that snide way that Hamitch always uses it. It has genuine feeling behind it. And I like it. I give Peeta a sad smile, and even glance at Hamitch to my left to see if he is paying attention. If he is, he is pretending to be more interested in the female senator seated next to him.

"It was beautiful but . . ."

Before I can finish my thought, the ceremony begins. All of us seated in one corner of the stage are introduced, and the applause for me and Peeta is particularly loud. It's a little easier to smile at them all and wave when you know they aren't out for your blood, and some of those people have been my friends and acquaintances for years. Yet I am still very uneasy, especially after the introductions are done and the real security is activated. There is a buzz and a hum as the force-field is activated, and four men and a woman wearing black suits fan out across the stage as they emerge from the great wooden doors of courthouse. A few senators speak about how much better things have gotten in their districts, and then Hamitch steps up and talks about horrors and atrocities that will never be repeated. I tune out during this part because I have lived most of the horrors. When he finishes, I have no choice but to pay attention, because the voice on the loudspeaker cuts into my brain like one of those weird headaches that I found out ice cream can give you if you eat it too fast.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the voice announces "The President of the United Districts!"

A fanfare that seems to be designed for the president is played, and the President Hayfield emerges from the courthouse.

I don't watch television anymore. I don't even keep one in my house since I am not required to by law. As a result I have never actually seen the president. Certainly I have heard about him a little, but even then people seem to know better than to talk about politics when I am around. I know he was just a poor farmer from district 11, and that since he was never a military man or directly involved in the war he gained huge amounts of popularity for the kind of leader her would be in a nation that was tired of the militant. I did have some curiosity about who would take over the role of leadership, but I remain convinced that power of that kind always corrupts. Even if I was allowed to vote in the big presidential election I'm not sure I would have, because deep down I didn't think it mattered.

As I see him emerge, I am overwhelmed with the sense that I have seen him before. I give a little gasp when it hits me. The victory tour—a man comforting a tearful woman as four small children look up at me with expectant faces. This man is Rue's father.

I clutch Peeta's hand so tightly my knuckles turn white.

"Peeta!"I rasp.

I feel both Peeta and Hamitch staring at me in genuine surprise, but my eyes don't leave the man, who crosses to the podium, holding up one arm in a gentile wave as he smiles. He's a big man, hairless on the head, his eyes heavy with wisdom and a brow creased with years of sweat and toil.

"You didn't know?" Peeta asks me silently as the applause for the President's entrance dies down. I finally meet his blue eyes, my mouth hanging open a little. It feels dry. My tongue feels so heavy to speak. Am I happy? I should be, I think. But I'm also suddenly very anxious.

"I−I didn't want to know. I−"

"He didn't want to meet you for political gain, sweetheart." Hamitch interrupts. "Didn't you read his letters? It was personal. He still wants to if you'll let him. We all figured you couldn't face him out of guilt or some such nonsense."

Before I can formulate a response on how I had not even done anything with any letters from the government except toss them in the fireplace, Hayfield begins his speech. He talks for a long time on the new constitution, on how there will be balances placed on power to make sure that it is the people of Panem that are truly in control of their own government. He then talks about the new courthouse behind him, and how it represents a new form of law where all are presumed innocent until proven guilty, where the punishment will fit the crime, and where all will be judged not by one person but a jury of their peers.

His voice is deep and musical, and it draws you in and makes you want to listen as it rises with his passion and falls when he speaks solemnly. It feels like he has been speaking and inspiring people like this for a very long time. There are several flashes of light in front of him as a group of men and women standing just outside the force field but in front of the podium hold up microphones and carry personal cameras like the ones Castpr and Pollux used to haul around. Some of them have smaller cameras for still photos that create large flashes. Vaguely it occurs to me that some of the cameras are trained on me.

And then the president is saying my name. Katniss Everdean! I give a start and look to Peeta for support. I don't understand. I missed why my name was being called out. He urges me with a nod of his head. I shake mine.

"Go on," he mouths.

"Katniss will you please join me at the podium?" The president says kindly.

Slowly I get up and walk over. There are cheers, but all I seem to notice is my face on the big screen in the market square. Then I look into Hayfield's kind eyes, and I am somehow calmed. He offers his hand out to me and I take it. I half expect him to turn to the crowd and lift our arms in the air triumphantly together. Instead, he merely lifts a document off the podium and shows it to me, speaking in a soft voice.

"Ms. Everdean, you were confined to District Twelve for the act of assassination of one of the leaders of our great rebellion, President Alma Coin. You're trial found you guilty of temporary insanity and required mental health treatment by phone. There were many who felt you're punishment was not harsh enough, that you got off too easy."

I don't want to be up here anymore. People in the square are silent. Have they suddenly remembered to hate me? Are my mother and Gale watching this live? Why is he doing this to me? This is exactly why I didn't want to meet him, and now he intends to decree a harsher punishment for me?

I try to turn away but his iron grip holds me fast.

"But new evidence has some to light," he says forcefully to me, "That you were in fact not insane at all. That you knew exactly what you were doing."

With my flight instinct thwarted, I feel I have no choice left except to fight. They have already decided my fate it is clear. It's made even worse that Rue's father would do this to me, in front of a place where he just declared everyone innocent until proven guilty no less. I square off to him stare into his eyes, which look so kind and so grateful that it confuses me, but I refuse to let my guard down now.

"No," I say with all the hate in my heart that I felt for Coin. "I was not insane."

The President nods at my words, and then inexplicably to me, smiles warmly.

"On the day of liberation a group of children, medical staff, and you were fire-bombed by devices designed to look like food and aid parachutes. This crime against humanity was unforgivable, and until now was blamed on former Capitol President Snow. But recordings have come to light, through the investigative efforts of one Gale Hawthorne and a fellow victor of yours who only calls himself Beetee, that it was in fact Alma Coin who ordered the attack."

I'm stunned. My shoulders relax. Gale has done it. He's cleared my name. I sigh and close my eyes, and I don't even care if everyone in Panem can see the two tears that streak down my cheeks. Reggie Hayfield, Rue's father, not the President, brushes my tears away and continues even softer than before.

"Although we cannot condone assassination, for Coin will never stand trail now for her actions, I am using my executive power under the new constitution to grant you, Katniss Everdeen, a full pardon for your actions in what was clearly still a time of war. You are hereby awarded all your liberties under the new constitution, and are to be made a full citizen of the United Districts of Panem!"

With that, he slams the document back down onto the podium, pulls a pen from the front pocket of his suit and signs his name. As he does this, there is uproar from the crowd. Cheers. No, not just cheers—chanting.

"Mock-ing-jay! Mock-ing-jay! Mock-ing-jay!"

I feel faint. It's all too good to be true. It dawns on me that there is no war to win, no objective to accomplish. I don't need these people to like me for my survival. I don't need them to like me so that anyone's soldiers will fight harder. They just love me for who I am, standing there in a simple dress and braid. I do the only thing I can think of, and press three fingers to my lips and then extend my hand in the time honored salute of District Twelve. This silences the crowd, as slowly, every single person, even the little girl on her mother's hip, returns the gesture. Hayfield himself steps back from me and does the same toward me. Once everyone has lowered their hands, he speaks to the group of people holding cameras and microphones.

"We will now take a few questions."

There are more than a few questions. The cameramen and people with microphones surge forward, some of their questions directed at the President, but most of them at me, and they are relentless.

"Katniss! Can you tell us how you feel at this moment?"

"Katniss, what tipped you off that Coin was the one that ordered the attack?"

"Katniss, is it true that your sister Prim was killed in the fire-bombing? Did you strike out in vengemce?"

"Katniss, over here…"

"Katniss…"

"Katniss!"

I'm overwhelmed. Some of the questions, like the ones about Prim, are far too personal. Suddenly I'm suffocating. Peeta is at my side. President Hayfield has called him over. There are girlish squeals of delight as he takes my hand. I turn to him and let him embrace me, trying to hide from all the questions by burying my face in his chest.

"Please everyone one at a time," Peeta says, speaking for me. "She didn't know about this and is pretty shocked."

This causes an eruption of new questions for Peeta. Even with Peeta by my side, I can't stay. I have to escape. I have to think. I slip from Peeta's arms and bolt for the courthouse, slamming the door behind me as I try to shut the world out.

* * *

The inside of the courthouse is dim, but pleasantly lit by natural sunlight filtering through four windows on each side. There are doors that seem to lead to offices beyond this first great room, but I stand in awe of the artistic design of my surroundings. I am impressed with the intricate detail of the carved wood dais at the front where I suppose a judge would sit and walk forward to feel the flat shiny polished wood surface. Behind the dais is a large painting of some historical figure I don't recognize. There are other paintings on the wall. One of them I recognize as Peeta's work. I walk over to it and examine it closely, a representation of several people locked in stockades. Behind me, the great double doors open and close softly.

"He does beautiful work doesn't he?"

I turn with a start. I half expected to hear Peeta's voice, or at least Hamitch, but coming towards me, working his way through the rows of comfortable looking benches, is Reggie Hayfield. I turn back to the painting.

"Hard for me to look at sometimes," I say simply.

Then he's standing next to me, also admiring the painting, which is bathed in soft sunlight.

"I think it's good they put this one in here," says Hayfield. "So we don't forget what injustice we can fall to."

I have nothing to say to that, so we are silent for a few moments. I have a million things I want to ask him—about Rue, about her siblings, about how he was even in the running for president, about the man who was shot because of me that day of the victory tour . . .

"You know, Katniss, you shouldn't think too badly of them—the reporters. They aren't used to being able to ask any questions they want to ask, write about anything they want to write about, or say anything they want to say."

"It's not that, uh, President Hayfield, sir," I say, trying to be formal and polite.

"Please, Katniss, call me Reggie, or just Mr. Hayfield if you want. I owe you a great deal."

"But why?" I screech in anguish as I try desperately to fight the water filling my eyes. "I couldn't save her! I was too late. I couldn't do anything—I—I. . ."

Rue's father takes me in his giant arms and hugs me. I feel like such a mess, sobbing in the arms of someone I have just spoken to for the first time. Yet he feels like family to me, and I am in desperate need of family right now.

"Katniss," he sighs my name, and I can tell by the quaver in my voice that he is fighting tears too.

"Katniss, it's not about that you could protect her in the arena or not from harm. It's that you made her happy. In you she had a friend in those last days. She wasn't alone. She knew she was loved and she loved you. Only you could do that for her Katniss. Do you understand me young lady?"

I step back and nod, understanding but not quite feeling better. I imagine this man talking to Rue this way, calling her young lady and perhaps hoisting her onto his great massive shoulders at the end of the work day. He places his hands on my shoulders.

"Let me tell you a story, Katniss. When you saluted Rue after decorating her body, that was caught on camera. Our district was watching. We all saluted you back, hoping you would feel it, if not see it. You'll read in the books now that District 8 had the first organized uprising of the war, but there probably won't be a whole lot written about the first unorganized uprising."

I stare at him, sniffing in an effort to resume breathing normally. "What do you mean?"

"When I saw how unified our district was in reaching out to you, I let my anger flow without fear. I started breaking things, throwing anything I could get my hands on. We knocked over a peacekeeper watchtower. We were driving them back with clubs, stones and fists, and then they brought in the water hoses. They never figured out who started the whole thing . . ."

"And so, on my victory tour . . ."

"We were under heavy threat already, yes."

"The man they shot?"

"They assumed he started the initial uprising. He knew what might happen to him, but he knew we needed to get you that message, to let you know we were behind you."

Hayfield lowers his eyes, filled with sorrow.

"His name was Jenkins. He was my friend."

"I'm so sorry," I say pleadingly, new tears are forming and I am unsure how to beg forgiveness, but Hayfield says something that finally sticks with me, something finally gives me some measure of peace. I am immediately grateful for the wisdom of Reggie Hayfield, and trust him as he says,

"Stop blaming yourself for all the deaths, Katniss—for Jenkins and Rue and all the others. The ability to give people courage is rare, and you influenced not how they died but how they chose to live. Free."


	3. Chapter 3

I stare at him for a moment, letting his words wash over me like a warm summer rain. I even manage a small smile, and then he makes me an offer.

"Now Katniss, tell me, would you like to go back out there and take on the news teams or would you like to follow me out the back?"

I blink at him because I feel a little astonished.

"I can go with you? I mean, I have a choice?"

"Of course, Katniss. I should say if anyone has earned the right to choose their path It's you."

"Where will you take me?"

He lets out a low throaty laugh, flashing me a smile that looks hauntingly like Rue's . "Anywhere you want to go, young lady. You think I intend to kidnap you back to Panem Central?"

"I'm just not used to being chauffeured around by presidents," I say. "But if you really don't mind I have had enough of the spotlight for one day."

"Follow me then."

I follow him through a side door and down a hallway lined with legal offices. Waiting for us are two more of those men in black suits I had seen outside. My boots make a ghostly echo along the marble floors until we reach a red illuminated sign that says "Exit."

Outside there is a car waiting. I have never been in a car before, not even in all my time spent at the capital. I have seen them of course, and they were even necessary to get around in some of the more industrialized districts. I have always gotten around by hovercraft or train since I left the district for the first time, and to ride in something new, even for a short while, excites me—especially since this vehicle is taking me home, and not anywhere I would likely be killed.

This car is black and shiny on the outside. One of the bodyguards opens the door for us, revealing a plush leather interior of dark gray, and then shuts it behind us. The backseat cabin is spacious, and probably could have easily held five or six people in two couches that face each other. The windows are shaded so nobody can see in, but we can see out just fine.

We drive away unmolested. I thought the ride would be bumpy, considering the state of the gravel road that leads back to the Victor's village, but it's as smooth as if I had been riding on a train.

There is even a television inside the back seat area with us. I am amazed enough that such a device can work inside a car that I forgot my aversion to television when the President switches it on.

"Let's see how Mr. Mellark is doing." Hayfield asked.

I didn't have to bear witness to it to know what was happening back in front of the courthouse, but I watch anyway as a live feed shows Peeta masterfully answering the reporters' questions. He has them eating out of the palm of his hand, and any time the questions turn toward me and my whereabouts, he easily deflects them back to himself with his quirky brand of humor. Peeta points at a reporter who must have raised her hand. She speaks in a clear accent that I still define as "capitol."

"Peeta, what do you think Katniss will do now that she is free to leave the district and go where she pleases. Also do you think she ever regretted her decision to shoot President Coin?

Peeta looks thoughtful for a moment, as he folds his arms in front of his chest and gently pinches his chin. At last, he gives the reporter a quick flash of his index finger, indicating an idea has come to him.

"Did I ever in all my interviews say why I love Katniss Everdeen?"

"Wasn't it something about her singing? I don't see how—"

"I didn't fall for her just because she has a beautiful singing voice, or because she's beautiful, or because she's strong, or because she liked the same things I liked, or even because I wanted to be like her."

Peeta pauses dramatically, finding a camera to look directly into. I feel his eyes searching for me, and I suddenly know these next words are for me and only me, even if the rest of Panem hears them and uses them for however they wish—these next words were mine.

"I love her because she fights without question and without hesitation to protect and stand by those she loves. I love her because she without fail, no matter how bad or how dark it gets, will put herself between the people important to her and danger. I love her because she made me believe I could do the same."

Peeta looks back to the reporter who had asked the question.

"Katniss will go wherever there are people she loves, and I can tell you her only regrets may be that she did not act sooner to prevent even more loss."

With that, Peeta leaves the podium, even though they were still shouting questions at him. One of the louder questions ask if he was referring to Prim, and I recoil reflexively at the mention of her name. A press secretary steps up to tell the reporters that this was all the time that was available.

"He's right you know," Hayfield says as we near my house. I barely hear him. Peeta's words are still ringing in my head. I think I should be angry. The Mockingjay certainly would have been. But instead I feel a coldness in my chest begin to disappear, as if a block of ice in my chest was quickly melting in warm water.

"That I protect people that I love?" I muse somewhat defensively. "Lots of people do that."

Hayfield shakes his head.

"That you make people believe they can do the same," he says. "Which reminds me, I have something for you. They returned it to us after the games."

It's a small necklace in the shape of a small wooden star. I gasp and immediately my eyes sting with salt water. I shake my head slowly.

"No! No Mr. Hayfield I couldn't. I Won't."

"Rue would have wanted you to have it, Katniss."

"I can't take her good luck charm." I am pleading with him now, and I am again unable to stop myself from crying. The difference is this time I'm not embarrassed about it. "I have nothing to give you in return for something like this."

"Don't be silly, young Mockingjay. You're share of the victory purse that you gave us was enough to feed much more than just the families of Jenkins and me for years to come."

"Y-you got to keep the money?"

"It was going to be heavily taxed under the old Capitol," Hayfield says with a nod. A wry smile creeps across his face. "But they never got the chance. How do you think I got the initial funding to get my campaign off the ground?"

I stare at him open mouthed for a moment, but I still don't dare accept something so precious.

"It's too important. It should stay within your family."

He presses the beautiful ornament into my hands and cups his hands over mine, smiling that haunting smile—the one that looks so much like Rue.

"You _are_ family, Katniss."

Sniffling, I nod. Then I surprise myself by throwing my arms around him in a big hug, the necklace clutched securely in my right hand. He hugs me back, and after a moment reminds me that we have arrived.

"Can you take me a few more houses down?" I ask. "I'd like to go into Peeta's for a little while."

"That won't be a problem at all young lady," he says warmly.

* * *

Peeta's house is as neat and clean as ever. It wasn't just that it wasn't as lived in as mine; Peeta had a genuine taste for cleanliness. He outclassed me in neatness and organization of a home by far. Sometimes he would even go over to Hamich's house to clean. This was an area I am certain at least five of the thirteen districts would consider to be a biohazard, and entering without protective clothing to be unsafe. For some reason, Peeta didn't seem to mind.

Also unlike me, Peeta did keep a television in his home, and this is the reason I have come. I stand there for several moments staring at the thing, fingering the wooden star pendant necklace I now wear around my neck while I listen to the tic-tock of an old grandfather clock resonate from somewhere deeper in the house.

Neatly stacked on top of the living room table is a stack of three books on law and criminal law procedure. Peeta sometimes studies books like these before going to sleep. On top of these books is a long rectangular remote used to operate the television.

This television is different than the old Capitol versions. Those only had one channel and came on automatically if the power came on—when Capitol law insisted you watch the programing. There were now three stations of programing, and one of them I know has nothing but constant news coverage. This is the one I seek.

After fiddling with the buttons on the clunky remote for a while I figure out how to turn on the television and find the station I am looking for. There is something I want to know, something I didn't want President Hayfield to know I was even worried about.

It takes about fifteen minutes of watching. I have to wait through a recap of the President"s speech, a replay of Peeta's heartfelt reply regarding me, and something about voting for who would move on to the next round of a show called "Panem's Next Pop Star"

I am about to give up when I witness much more than I had bargained for.

There he is, right on the screen, sitting in the news room with Caesar Flickerman in his new job as a television news broadcaster for the station calling itself PNN.

Gale.

I sit back down, transfixed on the screen.

"So, Mr. Hawthorn, before we get to discussing tour operation which discovered the war crimes of several key leaders of district 13, let's talk a little bit about Katniss Everdeen. May we?"

"I suppose that'd be alright," says Gale. "But I won't speculate on her. We haven't been in contact for quite some time."

"So sorry to hear that, Gale," says Caesar with genuine concern. "May I as why?"

Gale presses his lips together in a thin line. "I'm sorry Caesar you may not."

"Very well then," Caesar says, managing to break the tension with his positive demeanor. "Let me resume with my planned questions. There are some who contend that it is a big coincidence that you were so close to Miss Everdeen that you happened to uncover the evidence that exonerated her. Now I know there have been a lot of rumors, Gale, so I was hoping you could clear a few of those up tonight. Some of the biggest ones involve your relationship to the young woman who is now often affectionately called the Mockingjay. It was publically announced before the war that you are her cousin. How close to Katniss are you in truth?"

Gale shifts uncomfortably in his seat, but replies without hesitation.

"Katniss and I grew up together, our families were close friends, but we're not cousins. We claimed to be because before the war we knew that President Snow was looking for any way he could to nullify Katniss' victory and destroy the effect she was having as a symbol of Rebellion."

"And did you at that time have a closer relationship to Katniss?"

"Katnip . . . er . . .that's my nickname for her. Yeah we were close, but not like you might think. She and I have long been hunting partners. As you know, hunting was illegal under Capitol law, and so other rumors started to circulate. Those rumors were dangerous to Katniss, even if they were false."

Gale shifted forward in his seat, suddenly looking stern.

"And for the record, I came up with the idea for and led the operation because I realized that weapons that I helped develop were used in the bombings of innocents. It had nothing to do with the Mockingjay."

"Could you tell us a little bit about the design of the bombs?" Caesar said, his usual good humor fading to something more serious.

I listen for a few more minutes as Gale describes the fire bombs, how Beetee and he had designed them as traps to inflict maximum damage. And then it was onto the operation, how he had gone undercover and gained the trust of Coin's former supporters in a fake coup plan, and how all of them had quickly sold out the dead district president to lighten their own punishments.

This is about all the news I can stand. I press the button to turn off the television with about ten times more force than I need when the sound of someone clearing their throat from behind me makes me nearly jump out of my skin.

I don't know how a boy who tromps through the woods with such noise manages to sneak up on me, but he does. Was I that focused on the broadcast?

"I suppose you'll want to go see him now," Peeta says darkly, his face emotionless.

"Who Gale?" I ask, still trying to recover from the shock of being startled. "No! I mean yes. I mean I guess so. Sure, why not."

His reply is a simple nod of the head, but he looks so stricken my heart feels like it sinks into my stomach.

"Guess we better go see about getting you tickets," he says, turning to head back out the front door.

"Peeta wait!" I say hurriedly, snatching his wrist and turning him back to me. "Listen, Gale's home is here. He should be wanting to come see _me_, but he hasn't. He doesn't even call unless he thinks my mother needs something."

"So what if he comes back?" Peeta asks quietly.

I understand that Peeta is looking for confirmation, some kind of reassurance that I have really chosen him. And I do try to give it to him, but I tell Peeta the worst thing I possibly could at that moment.

"Gale knows I may never be able to look at him the same way again. I'm still struggling with it, but he feels responsible for Prim, that he didn't protect her. But I needed him Peeta. I needed him to stay with me and be there for me in that time, but suddenly he was just . . ."

It takes me a while to get out the simplest of words, because this line of talk has caused buried hurt to come to the surface. I manage to stuff the hurt back down as I say, "gone."

I start towards him, reaching for him. "You were there, Peeta."

He clenches his teeth, causing a sharp cha sound to escape between them, his hands ball into fists briefly.

"So I get to be with you by default then? I'm the one you settle for?

His anger boils over a little in the form of watery eyes.

"Peeta, no!" I whine, tortured at what my own words have done to him. "That's not how I meant—"

"But it's the truth isn't it, Katniss?"

"Peeta."

I reach for him, hoping to at least smother his hurt by holding him, but he shrugs me off of him abruptly but gently. He takes a deep breath and turns toward the door. After taking two steps towards it, he looks back at me over his shoulder.

"You need to forgive Gale, Katniss. He did everything he could to make it up to you. Did you ever show him the locket I gave you?"

"No. I never showed anyone really," I've kept it with me all this time. I pause making sure to add something. "And the pearl you have me. They are both in a special box at home."

"I know," Peeta acknowledges. "I'm going to go get you a ticket. Go see him. Show him the locket. See what happens and decide."

I bark his name as his hand reaches the door. He doesn't stop.

"Peeta wait!" I demand, chasing after him. "Get two. And get them to visit my mother."

He steps out the door and closes it behind him without a word.


	4. Chapter 4

I feel cold. I remember thinking, after returning as a victor from my first hunger games, that since I would never marry, eventually my mother would pass away and Prim would grow up and go off on her own—and then I would be alone. I remember actually dreading that I might end up disgruntled and haunted like Hamich. Not that I would ever really turn to drinking, but the fear of being alone, truly alone, never feels more real than it does now.

I worry that I have hurt Peeta too much this time—that he will start to only resent me for using him and leading him on. It feels like if I get on the train Peeta wants to put me on, that I will never get him back.

The cold, lonely feeling makes me shiver and I cross my arms over my chest, the grandfather clock ticking away steadily as I walk toward the phone whispers over and over that, if I am to not end up alone, I am running out of time. The phone is on a small table along the wall between the entryway to the kitchen and the staircase leading to the bedrooms. I pick up the receiver with a trembling hand, and a pleasant sounding woman speaks up after a moment of waiting.

"Operator. How may I direct your call?"

"I'm not sure," I say. In fact, I'm not. I know there is no way the person I want to talk to is at home. "Um, is there any way to call the PNN newsroom? Do they even take calls?"

"That _is_ an odd request," the woman says trying to be friendly. "Hold on let me see if I can look it up."

I only have to wait for about a minute before her voice returns to the line.

"It is possible to connect, but they only take calls from certain locations or people. You sound much too young. Maybe if you wrote a letter?"

I try not to be offended by the woman's sudden audacity to call me too young. What could she have possibly done in her whole lifetime to match the hell I had been through in the last two years? Instead of getting angry, I simply fill my voice with conviction.

"Place the call. Tell them Katniss Everdeen wishes to speak to Gale Hawthorn."

I hear what sounds like a tiny gasp on the other end of the line. The operator begins to speak with quite a bit more energy than before.

"Oh! I'm so sorry I didn't recognize you at first Miss Everdeen. I'll put you through at once!"

She puts me through and I get some kind of secretary, who also does not recognize me at first, but by this time I have realized that throwing my name around gets me where I want to go. I am told that Gale had just left the studio. I am about to hang up, defeated, when I am told to wait, that someone has caught up to him. A moment longer and Gale's soft voice reaches my ears. He sounds weary, but genuinely surprised.

"Katnip! I can't say I was expecting this, not even after I got home."

"Hello Gale," I say softly. "I saw your interview."

"I saw your little moment with the press too," he pauses, and in his breath I can feel him searching for something to add. "You handled the spotlight well as always."

"Thank you." I know for certain he is just trying to make kind small talk. Running and hiding from questioning reporters did not seem very well handled at all.

"So how have you been?" He asks.

"I've been thinking a lot about the last time we talked face to face, Gale," I say.

"Katniss, this may not be the best place for me to—"

"Just listen," I interrupt firmly. "I'm not someone who opens up her heart when it's convenient for everyone."

We both laugh at this, and it breaks the ice. It gives me the courage to begin saying something I have been terrified of saying for a long time.

"That day, I wanted so bad to tell you it was all going to be alright. That I would be able to see past you working on those bombs. That you were wrong and that you had more going for you than how well you took care my family. "

There is silence. Gale has always listened so well to me, his grey eyes burning with interest, hanging on every word. But over the phone I am afraid of some disconnect, so I only continue when I hear a slow exhale. He is preparing himself.

"But I just couldn't. I still don't know if you were right about me, but I was certainly afraid you were. You've always known me better than anyone else."

"Katniss . . ." The way he says my name is a question really, asking me if he can say something. But it is also full of warm emotion at my words. But I can't stop just yet.

"And then you were gone. Just gone. I think you were gone before you even left. You were gone. Prim was Gone. So, when I took aim at Coin—I was already dead inside in my heart, and I planned to die that day."

"I am sorry Katniss," he says quietly as I pause. "I thought it would be best for both of us not to put you through a long goodbye. I thought it best if I just disappeared from you. I was nothing but a reminder of your pain."

"But you're not, Gale. Not really. It's not even about Prim. It's just . . ."

I hesitate, looking for words. He breaks the silence first.

"But I failed you, Katniss." His voice is even softer now, strained.

"No."

"I can't ever make that up. Getting the truth out about Coin was not about trying to make that up. It was for me.

"You didn't fail me," you always did everything you could. "I just hate what the war did to you—what you thought you had to do to win it. I hated it because it almost did it to me too. You and I are too much alike, Gale."

"I know," he says. "I used to think that was a good thing."

"It still can be," I assure him. "But I didn't die that day for the same reason I didn't die in two arenas and more."

"Peeta," says Gale. He doesn't say it in such a way as I have heard before, with that hint of jealousy. It almost sounds like . . . admiration.

"Gale," I say softly. "I heard you tell him that night in Tigress' shop. About how I would choose the one I could not survive without."

"You heard that, huh?" He says this flatly, and then he laughs. "You don't have to explain Katniss. I suppose I knew it already talking to Peeta that night."

"Thank you," I say with a long exhale of relief. "But Gale, you and your fancy job—"

Gale laughs again and says, "I wouldn't call the Panem Intellegence Agency anything fancy. More like glorified watchdog."

"Please lets you and I move forward now. You're still important to me."

"I won't be a stranger, Katnip," says Gale.

A moment later I am off the phone with him, and I hope it doesn't become some big news story that we've reconciled just because of where he was. But I can't worry about that right now. I'm still very distressed about Peeta, and I feel like there is only one place I can go to truly understand him. Aware that I have not been in the room since the first time he showed me his paintings, I head upstairs to the bedroom he has turned into his art studio.

* * *

I hesitate at the entrance to the room. I am not sure I am prepared to face the paintings that are likely to be within. The lady time I really looked at a collection of Peeta's art was before the quarter quell. At thar time he had mostly painted our original games, but so much had happened since then, and if Peeta had painted any of it...

I open the door and step into a room bathed in the orange and red flow of the setting sun. The scent of paint dominates the air, but it's mixed with a hint of thinner or turpentine that makes me woozy as I walk in. My attention is immediately drawn to an unfinished painting on an easel in front of me. On it, Peeta has a half-finished dandelion. There is a large amount of white space to the left, and I wonder what he intends to fill the rest in with.

I'm touched, relieved that the first painting I see is not some horror from one of my nightmares. I remember telling Peeta the rest of the story about the day he threw me the bread as the first dandelions appeared in my yard this season. Perhaps he intended this one as some kind of gift.

I turn to my right and have to shield my eyes from the orange glare of the sun as I notice a small workbench by the window. On it sits a closed sketchbook bound in a black leather cover. It's surrounded by pencils both large and small, and bits of charcoal for doing rubbings.

Carefully, I open it and start flipping through sketches. A large percentage are of me. Some of them are of me at different ages. There are a few where he has made me look happy and singing. And there are also those where my face is creased with sadness or fear. How closely he must observe me to have captured all these emotions!

There are others in the book. Gale and Beetee working together, joanna Mason and a sketch of President Snow that I loathe. I turn quickly past him to discover sketches of the other victors from the quarter quell. Finnick and Annie are drawn last, and drawn together sitting side by side.

So far I am amazed as usual at Peeta's incredible gift, but I can handle the sketches. I start to wonder what it is I am looking for. Am I so determined to find something that is going to make me an emotional wreck- a blubbering tearful fool?

No. I'm searching for Peeta in here. I need him to tell me why I'm choosing him, and why he has always chosen me, because if there is one thing I understand about myself, it's that I can rarely figure myself out through words. Words ate too easy to bend, to erase, or to manipulate into convincing yourself of truths that are easier to accept. I need truth to stare me in the face with more than words.

I find it in the opposite side of the studio from the desk, past tubes of rolled up prints of previous paintings and black canvasses and in a row of seven completed paintings leaning against the wall. One by one I walk by them, and each had a different effect on me.

In the first one, Peeta has taken his sketch of Finnick and Annie and turned it into an amazing work of art. They sit together peacefully on a beach somewhere, Annie resting her head on Finnicks cheat as they stare out across the water at sunset. I smile thinking that Peeta has gotten the chance to use a lot of his favorite color in this one.

I realize I never really let myself grieve for Finnick. I couldn't even bring myself to look Annie in the eye or talk to her after that mission. He had died believing in me, and in the process left her and a child alone! A single tear rolls down my cheek, and I promise myself to check in on Annie soon.

The next painting is a landscape of the click arena from the quarter quell, complete with a rolling tidal wave and the gold cornucopia gleaming in the center - the beaches around it littered with weapons. There is a strange beauty to this place of death, and I wonder if I'll ever really be able to relax on a beach. Finnick used to talk about beaches often, and I even thought a sport where you tried to ride waves on a flat board called surfing sounded like fun. Surviving, hunting, trapping - these things were all the fun I've ever had.

A third painting is on a smaller canvas, and I have to pick it up to look at it. It's the underworld of the Capitol. There are errie shadows cast in the light of flashlights. Shadows of me, Finick, Peetah, Gale, the insects, and the others creep along above putrid green waters. Even though Peeta has not drawn the aweful horrible mutts hunting us, I am more chilled to the bone by this image than actually seeing those aweful creatures. The shadows seem to say it all.

The next one is a full portrait of Lavinia, my Avox friend. Yet another person who suffered and died for me at the hand of the Capitol's agents. But Peeta has not painted her suffering. I can only imagine what nightmares he still has about her screams as she was electrocuted to death in a cell next to his, so I am surprised and warmed to see her smiling brightly. I don't think I ever saw her smile in life, but in remembering her Peeta has made her happy and free.

Peeta has also painted his father. The mild mannered baker is bent over an oven tending the flames. Behind him is a tray with three neatly rolled lumps of dough. He seems to be glancing toward me, a slight smile on his face. It suddenly occurs to me how much Peeta must miss his father, and my heart begins to ache. He never talks about the loss of his family in district twelves destruction, but I've never asked him either, never offered to be there for him. I plan on running down to him now when he gets back, wrapping my arms around his neck and...

The next painting is the largest, and as I see it I think maybe I want to punch Peeta in the face instead. He has painted me. There is really no surprise there, but I look so fierce, so heroic, like something manufactured for one of my Mockingjay propos. I am in my Mockingjay suit, President Snow is at my feet, his plump lips peeled back in manic laughter as he looks up away from me. Several shocked officers backpedal away from Alma Coin, who stares in pain and disbelief at the arrow lodged in her chest. My bow is raised, as I have obviously just loosed the arrow, and I look nothing like how I felt at that moment, which was terrified, vengeful, and deep down, worthless.

Is this really how Peeta sees me in this moment - All full of conviction and purpose? Or is this how he wants the world, his audience, to see me? It's only when I see the last painting that I truly understand, and my anger at him is replaced by something else.

It's me again. This time I'm in a hospital bed. I'm asleep or unconscious my face framed in bandages and some kind of tube stuck in my nose to help me breathe. But I am not the focus of this hospital scene. Sitting on my bed, mostly transparent is a girl with a white ducktail dress. She has her hand on my forehead, and she smiles down at me. It's Prim.

I fall to my knees in front of the painting. My trembling hands reach out toward the painting, as if I could reach into it and somehow touch Prim, wrap her in a fierce hug. My hands brush over the dry paint, tracing prims features, and that's when I notice the small bird, equally as transparent as Prim, sitting on her shoulder. It's a mockingjay.

My mind rewinds itself to a moment folded in Peeta's arms, as I tell him about a rare good dream. I still dream it from time to time, the one where I follow Rue as a mockingjay through the forest as she sings to me in her own voice. I never get to see where Rue is leading me, but now, seeing this painting I understand that wherever it is—when I get there it will be home.

I hear President Hayfield's words in my head as I hug myself gently.

"_Stop blaming yourself for all the deaths, Katniss—for Jenkins and Rue and all the others. The ability to give people courage is rare, and you influenced not how they died but how they chose to live. Free."_

"Free," I whisper the word to myself. No, not to myself—I'm speaking directly to Prim. I speak to her as if she is right there with me, just like in Peeta's wonderful painting. "Prim are you free?"

I thought about how Prim died, burning, thrashing and calling for me as the flames consumed us both. Hot tears stream down my face as I remember her rushing to the aid of the children that had been bombed before her, how fearless she was, knowing her duty, knowing she could help save them. She died—no—she lived. In those last moments she was freely living happily as she chose. I gave her that chance. I saved her from having to fend for herself in a forested arena, from having to face down the likes of Clove and Cato herself. Prim was happy, _is_ happy.

My hands slide along the dusty wooden floor of the studio. I sob, gulping for air as I remember my own words to an ugly old cat. My tears start to hit the floor like a slow heavy rain, and start to form a tiny puddle.

"_She's gone buttercup. She's gone and she's never coming back!"_

But she isn't gone. Prim will always be with me. Rue will always be with me. Without so much as a single word, Peeta has shown me that, and I choose to believe it. I _must_ believe it.

"Oh Peeta," I croak. "Thank you."

My heart stops as I hear the front door downstairs open, and then I can hear footfalls moving around downstairs. I'm terrified that it's too late, that Peeta is determined to send me away from him, but I spring to my feet and rush to the stairs, calling his name in earnest.

"Peeta! Peeta is that you?"

I reach the top of the stairs and look down into those beautiful blue eyes. It's been less than an hour, but I feel like I haven't seen him in months. He still has the scowl he was wearing when he left, but he speaks kindly.

"Course it is," he says. "Who else would it be? It's my house isn't it?"

"Right," I say. "I rush down the stairs, nearly tripping over myself as I fling myself at him. I try to kiss him, but he holds me back for a moment. When he sees I have been crying, his mask of hurt and anger fades to concern.

"What is it? What's wrong, Katniss?"

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong. In fact, I feel happy."

"You've been crying."

"I saw your new paintings. I saw the one with Prim sitting with me."

As soon as I tell him this, he concern changes to worry. His eyes shift downward as if a little embarrassed.

"You don't hate them?"

"No. No, Peeta, I love them. They . . . speak to me."

He smiles at this. But he seems to remember he's supposed to be upset about something, and as I read this on his face I know I have to cut it off in a hurry.

"Peeta I don't want to go see Gale. I don't need to do anything else dramatic to decide. I choose you, Peeta. I don't want to be with anyone else but you—ever. Please believe me."

"Katnis, I—"

I don't know if he is going to say he believes me or if he is going to try and be difficult. I don't care. I break him off with a kiss. I don't wait for gentile pressure. I don't make an effort to savor his lips or to be artful. If there were manners to kissing, I have thrown those out the window.

I press him backward, and he stumbles a little over his artificial leg, knocking something off a corner table with a crash. I don't even bother to see what it is. One kiss becomes several. There is a sort of duel going on between us as briefly between each meeting of lips our eyes meet, reassuring each other that nothing is going to stop us this time. It is rough, it is sloppy, it is hungry and my only goal becomes to literally steal Peeta's breath away. I know I succeed because he can only stop me by stooping to sweep me off of my feet. With both of us gasping for air he cradles me in his arms and carries me up the stairs.

I know I will never forget this moment. We both know it will be our first. I think we both must be terrified. There are all sorts of little fears and insecurities that spring up when you realize you're actually going to make love, that no one and no feeling is going to stand in the way of the incredible strange thirst that the body demands to have quenched. I am no exception.

In fact, I imagine I give myself much more to worry about than the average woman. I do not exactly have a natural affinity for romance. _This is no time to get embarrassed or worry about modesty_, I think, even as my clothes are practically being ripped off of me in Peeta's bedroom. But I blush anyway. I blush even more as first Peeta hurriedly removes his shirt, and then his pants.

"I suppose now you _really_ don't care if I see you," I say with I small laugh.

This makes him laugh, as I am sure he remembers saying this as I try to treat his wounds while removing his pants in the arena. He responds by kissing me again, for the first time, his hands drift to intimate places, places I have never expected to be touched. I have always equated sex with having babies, and that I simply cannot allow. I stop him and he groans. It's an awful, desperate sound and I promise myself I'll make it up to him.

"Peeta, do we have any, you know . . . protection?" I ask very quietly.

Peeta sits on the bed looking terribly distressed. Contraceptives were quite rare in the days of the Captiol, and in many districts like ours they were illegal. It was still a very real threat that the population was so stagnant that sometimes it would decline, and the goal of any government in Panem was to increase the population. Human extinction was still believed to be a very real threat. For a moment, I think we are going to have to stop after all, and then his face lights up as he remembers something.

"Hamitch, only ever offered me one gift. I refused it outright but .he did try to warn me that. . ."

And here Peeta does a perfect impression of a slurring and vulgar Hamich.

"Hey boy, if you ever want to tap that for real you're gonna have to make sure she knows she's not going to be the thing she's afraid of becoming the most."

Peeta dresses and is downstairs and out the door so fast I still haven't even registered what Hamitch meant. Am I so easy to read that even Hamitch can see I never want to be a mother? If that's the case then how does Peeta feel about it?

Instead of worrying, I try to awaken something inside of me that simply has never existed. I never dreamed of a need for it. For the next few minutes I concentrate on being _sexy_. I even undo my braid and try to make my hair look wild. I take a moment to examine my teeth, turn in the mirror as I lift my breasts. I try out different poses on the bed, trying to both get comfortable and find the one that will be the most enticing to Peeta when he comes back. I begin to worry that even if Peeta finds what he is looking for that the mood will be gone, and I simply just won't be interested anymore.

This does not happen. Peeta is breathing hard when he returns and grinning. He holds up a small amber vile of white pills for me to see.

"I take one of these and it will sterilize me for a week," he says. "But we have to wait at least half an hour."

I frown, unsure whether I should trust the wisdom of Hamitch on some magic pill that makes you sterile.

"Are you sure that really works, Peeta?"

"It has to," Peeta says. "Finnick also told me about them before he . . .anyway, just be glad I'm not also taking the ones that keep me, um, _up_—for four hours."

"Four hours!" I exclaim.

"Yeah," he says, popping a pill into his mouth and swallowing. "Finnick said you're supposed to seek a doctor if it lasts longer."

I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but I am suddenly sad, remembering the horrible sexual favors that Snow prostituted Finnick out for. I can't help but think of Peeta's painting of Finnick and Annie, and part of me wants to cry again. Peeta saves me from ruining the moment by walking over and kissing me tenderly. There is no more talking after that.

He rolls on the bed and pulls me into his arms. We take much more than thirty minutes just exploring each other, kissing, caressing, tasting. I hesitate at times, because I am shy and I feel so imperfect compared to him. His body is beautiful—hard, smooth and powerful. These qualities are balanced with softness in other areas and a gentleness in his hands that continuously makes me tremble and gasp for breath. He never makes me feel uncomfortable, never demands anything of me, and yet I somehow know exactly what he wants.

I let go of inhibition and kiss areas of him I could barely look at before. I do more than kiss, as I find that my lips and mouth have ways to gain such control over him that I am afraid he might actually go insane. It makes me laugh. It makes me feel powerful. It makes me want him more.

All of my control, all of my power, and all of my will vaporize as he counterattacks by touching me deeper—so deep it hurts just a little. I am afraid it is going to hurt worse but he's so gentile and then his lips are on my body, soothing me, playing me as if I were only his fine musical instrument—my soft moans and whimpers the notes of the perfect love song.

When he finally takes me, I literally see stars. I think I am going to be torn apart, the pain is so sharp. My nails dig into him and I bite my lip. He stops touching my cheek with a hand.

"Are you all right?"

I nod, answering him by raising my hips upward. Our eyes stay locked as we move together, truly in this moment the whole world fades away. There is only Peeta and me. There are ways we can move together in this strange dance that change how everything feels. We exchange power with each other easily, rolling together like waves in the ocean, and thundering together like multiple strikes of lightning. Out of the confusion, the sweat, the twisting of sheets I begin to feel something deep in my core about to boil over. I can see in his face by the way his eyes flutter closed in concentration, by the way his stomach tightens, and by the way the rhythm of his breathing has changed that he is nearly at this same boiling point. I can't help but scream, call out his name, and say the one thing I have never told anyone but my mother and Prim.

"Peeta! Oh Peeta! Oh—ah—ah—ah—I—I love youuuuu!

His release is warm, so much that it shocks me into more convulsions of uncontrolled pleasure. At last we both shudder and lay still. We hold each other close, as neither of us wants at this moment to ever have to separate from each other again. He rolls just enough so that I can lay my head on his chest comfortably.

When he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?"

I tell him, "Real."


End file.
